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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24690259">Housebound: A Vignette, or: The Pandemic as Plot Device</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Throwawaylady/pseuds/Throwawaylady'>Throwawaylady</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fleabag (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:21:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,334</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24690259</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Throwawaylady/pseuds/Throwawaylady</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"In any case, despite a recent apparent shortage of space, a spare bedroom has become newly available to house Godmother’s favorite spiritual leader. He has been worn down to accept her hospitality in spite of every reasonable opposition to the scheme. Somehow, nothing has occurred to prevent this strikingly convenient and exceedingly unlikely series of events which has serendipitously managed to array the dramatis personae in one place in defiance of a global pandemic which should have kept them all apart. </p><p>God, I suppose, works in mysterious ways."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>90</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Claire, no." </p><p> </p><p>"You cannot leave me here alone. I refuse to raise my child with only a sexual compulsive and an inarticulate lump for help."</p><p> </p><p>"With me here, it would be <em> two </em> sexual compulsives and an inarticulate lump."</p><p> </p><p>"Be serious! It's bad enough that Jorkki and I are separated from Klare till God knows when. If I'm stuck in <em> this </em> house with <em> these </em> people and without help to care for the baby I <em> will </em> go mad."</p><p> </p><p><em> Jorkki </em>.</p><p> </p><p>"Pay attention! You're not getting any revenue from the cafe. What if your landlord turns you out? You might as well stay here anyway, at least for a few days!"</p><p> </p><p>"Maybe my landlord's nice."</p><p> </p><p>"He's a landlord. All landlords are twats."</p><p> </p><p>This is true. My landlord is also, in particular, a twat. When the screws got stripped on my knob (<em> kinky </em>), he came downstairs in his boxers and tried to use superglue to fix it to avoid buying any new bits and bobs. The next day, I got stuck inside my flat for three hours trying to get the damn thing open. Hillary was frantic by the time I got to the cafe. (Joe was not happy either.)</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, fine! Let me enjoy my cigarette in peace."</p><p> </p><p>Little did Claire know, the only reason I agreed was because I knew Godmother (<em> “Stepmother” </em>) would never allow it. I could be the Virgin Mary and she would still find a way to turn me out—well, I guess just like the proper Virgin Mary. The excuse would be perfectly polite, but just thin enough for the snub to ring loud and clear. </p><p> </p><p>I follow her to the living room, where Dad is sitting looking gormless (sorry Dad) and Godmother is artfully draped in a problematic Rousseau-printed kaftan. She also has an artfully clashing headscarf and various pieces of artfully chunky jewelry and a pair of artfully embroidered mules, like what a Montessori art teacher would pick out if they got lost in Harvey Nichols.</p><p> </p><p>Claire’s busy trying to sell my presence in that stiff, unconvincingly cheerful way she has.</p><p> </p><p>"Dad, I was thinking, since Jorkki”—<em> Jorkki </em> <em> — </em>”and I will be stuck here for the foreseeable future, wouldn't it be nice to have us all together? A bit of a family reunion. We could stay in our old rooms, just like old times."</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, yes, hmm, that sounds very... memories...and such. Well, I-"</p><p> </p><p>Godmother interrupts. I can't blame her too much for it, the man really can't spit out a sentence.</p><p> </p><p>"Darling! What a wonderful idea. But we couldn't possibly think of putting your sister out. I'm sure she'd much rather be home with her little animal friends."</p><p> </p><p>"Actually, her bank manager's caring for them. But, I was saying, we so <em> rarely </em> get to see each other now that I've moved to Finland. And I know you wouldn't want to send her to be all alone by herself in that flat. Right Dad?"</p><p> </p><p>“No, of course, well, I-”</p><p> </p><p>"Aren't you sweet. Unfortunately, I just don't think it can be managed. You'll be in your old room, and the spare bedroom really isn't in any shape for a guest."</p><p> </p><p>"The spare bedroom" meaning, of course, my old room. Cunt.</p><p> </p><p>"But there are three spare rooms! Surely one will do. And, really, she's the best suited of all of us to run errands now. Dad certainly can't, and I have the baby."</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, no, we would feel terrible to send her out here and there—there are people for that! We've been ordering everything in. No reason to leave at all."</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Cunt. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>"Well, I guess you're right! You know, it’s so nice to be able to give you a chance to bond with the baby in the midst of all this awfulness. He’s such a handful, it will be <em> so </em> lovely to have an extra set of hands. I'm sure you'll be a natural, you're so nurturing."—I’m challenged to keep a straight face—”Do you know how to change a diaper?-”</p><p> </p><p>Well, fuck. Leave it to Claire to have a plan to get her way. I can see the gears turning in Godmother's head. It may suit her to have Dad be essentially useless<em> most </em>of the time, but in this situation he's a liability. She knows who will be helping with diaper duty. </p><p> </p><p>"How lovely! Well, you know, I was just thinking, we probably could clear out a bit of room for your sister in her old room. Wouldn't that be nice, darling? I know how much you miss the girls. We'll be a regular Brady Bunch! How charming!"</p><p> </p><p>And so she swishes upstairs to move her cache of erotic sculptures from "the spare room." I give Claire a dirty look. </p><p> </p><p>"Should have known you had something up your sleeve."</p><p> </p><p>"If I'm suffering, you're suffering too!"</p><p> </p><p>I guess that’s what sisters are for.</p><p> </p><p>------------</p><p> </p><p>It's been three days. </p><p> </p><p>Three days of passive aggression perfectly calculated to be absolutely, unimpeachably inactionable. </p><p> </p><p>Three days of diaper duty, project-directed by my high-strung, over-particular, overbearing older sister.</p><p> </p><p>Three days of my under-articulate father sputtering word salad like a Scottish Joe Biden.</p><p> </p><p>Three days of overhearing Godmother’s oversharing telephone conversations with God-knows-who and her saccharine, dripping, patronizing chit-chat with mask-wearing delivery boys.  </p><p> </p><p>It’s awful, and I’m actually dying. On at least 5 separate occasions I think I’ve felt my soul physically (psychically?) leave my body. Worse, I am <em> surrounded </em> by sex toys but I’ve left my own all at home. No way to relieve the boredom, and yet constant reminders of the sex life of my own father, and a constant, animate reminder of the sex life of my own sister. <em> Some </em>thing needs to happen. I can’t believe there hasn’t been a blow-up yet-</p><p> </p><p>“Father! I’m so glad you could bring back my painting! Poor thing, so lonely with the charity sale cancelled and no new home of its own!”</p><p> </p><p>Oh<em> no </em>. </p><p> </p><p>“Of course, of course, although I’m really not sure that I should have come over-” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, I know, so kind of you! How<em> are </em> you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, actually, not great, now you mention it, but-”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, yes of course, do come in, won’t you? Your test was negative, wasn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, but I’m still not sure if-”</p><p> </p><p>Too late, she’s already bodily moved him inside. They’re in the living room for a cuppa; I hide in an alcove just out of sight—I’m not a stalker.<em> I’m not.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“So, Father, how has your congregation been with the recent… inconveniences?”</p><p> </p><p>I can tell which words she punctuates with inappropriate fluttering touches of her hand to his arm or shoulder. <em> Cunt </em>. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s been terrible, actually, we’ve been using the church as a kind of makeshift shelter, and I’m glad to help, but there’s so much suffering and I-”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course, you poor dear! So much empathy, such a sweet man.”—He really is.—“And how is your little assistant, or—well, whatever she is—Pat, is it?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s Pam, actually, and it’s terrible—we both got tested, we’ve had a lot of exposure what with the shelter, but she’s tested positive and is holed up in the priory and I’ve actually been kicked out so, I really shouldn’t stay too long, in fact I don’t really think I should be so near you to begin with-”</p><p> </p><p>“Nonsense, Father, if you’ve tested negative it’s perfectly safe. Don’t worry on our account.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s not quite-”</p><p> </p><p>“-so very sweet-”</p><p> </p><p>He talks over her: “In <em> any </em> case, I really need to leave, I need to find somewhere to sleep for a few weeks. It’s going to be difficult with how the hotels are, so I need to get a move on…”</p><p> </p><p>Oh no. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, our Claire was having just the same problem. She got stuck visiting from Finland, you know, can’t get a flight back ...Oh, I’ve just had a wonderful idea!”</p><p> </p><p>Oh <em> no </em>. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”</p><p> </p><p>“Father, why don’t you stay<em> here </em>? Oh, it will be such a merry party!”</p><p> </p><p><em> Oh no </em>. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He must have really had a tough time finding a hotel, because somehow he’s been convinced to stay. Godmother has yet to mention my presence, otherwise I think he would have gone running. I can’t quite explain why I didn’t make my presence known to warn him. </p><p> </p><p><em> Liar </em>.</p><p> </p><p>In any case, despite a recent apparent shortage of space, a spare bedroom has become newly available to house Godmother’s favorite spiritual leader. He has been worn down to accept her hospitality in spite of every reasonable opposition to the scheme. Somehow, nothing has occurred to prevent this strikingly convenient and exceedingly unlikely series of events which has serendipitously managed to array the <em> dramatis personae </em> in one place in defiance of a global pandemic which should have kept them all apart. </p><p> </p><p>God, I suppose, works in mysterious ways.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The woman who enticed him to break his vows—arse in the air, redolent of coconut and sweat, vulva preeminent in skin-tight Bandier yoga pants... A very pretty picture, if I do say so myself.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Because he already knew he had been kicked out of the priory, the Priest had a charmingly dated portmanteau immediately at hand with all his necessaries; Godmother is fluttering about him excitedly as he brings it in the house. I have made a run for it, much to Claire’s bemusement</span>
  <span>—I never did get around to telling her everything. As far as she knows, he’s just the priest I once fancied, and probably slept with. Not so different from any other conquest of mine. I can tell from her face that she’s torn between disapproval and ribaldry. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I figure my best course of action is to hide as long as possible. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>To that end, I’ve decided that now is the time to begin my new all-indoors exercise regimen. I have some very chic, very sexy workout gear I spent entirely too much on, and I’ve even set out a little meditative humidifier apparatus. I’ve loaded it up with coconut scent, to remind myself of better days, and set out my cheeky neon mat (“LET’S GET DOWN, DOG”) in my old bedroom, recently denuded of sex Idols. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It is </span>
  <em>
    <span>possible</span>
  </em>
  <span> that I was setting the scene, just in case. Can you blame me if I wanted to remind him of better days too? The woman who enticed him to break his vows—arse in the air, redolent of coconut and sweat, vulva preeminent in skin-tight Bandier yoga pants... A very pretty picture, if I do say so myself. Unfortunately, my father is the one to accidentally walk in to see it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Er, darling, what is... you’re doing?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The heel of my hand slips in sweat and I thump to the floor. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ow</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, sorry Dad, just a spot of yoga. Did you need something?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You heard… now?, … another guest. Your Stepmother”</span>
  <span>—Godmother—“wants you to come say hello.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I mull it over—if you aren’t in position, is sweaty yoga gear </span>
  <em>
    <span>evocative</span>
  </em>
  <span> or</span>
  <em>
    <span> slatternly</span>
  </em>
  <span>?—but the choice is taken from me. I can hear just the edges of something awful being narrated by Godmother, something about a dichroic glass clitoris, and I feel a new sense of urgency to interrupt whatever it is she’s telling the Priest. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I wasn’t wrong to be worried; as I walk downstairs, I see that Godmother is brandishing a glittery phallus while the Priest cradles in his hands what appears to be a rainbow clit, including the winglike bits you can’t see on the outside. She’s showing him some of the recently rehoused sculptures—the clitoris is, of course, modeled after hers. The penis looks like a glass hand pipe. I have never seen him look more uncomfortable. (Which is probably saying something, considering how hard I worked to discompose him during our short</span>
  <em>
    <span> affaire de coeur</span>
  </em>
  <span>.) </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As I walk in, he almost dashes the thing to the floor in shock. I bet it would have made a satisfying smash. He covers it well, though, and Godmother doesn’t even notice that he recognizes me. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Father, do you remember my other stepdaughter? She was so </span>
  <em>
    <span>surprisingly</span>
  </em>
  <span> well-behaved at the wedding, perhaps you don’t—although, actually, she did cause rather a kerfuffle at our engagement dinner, didn’t she? How many Hail Marys would it be if someone confessed to fabricating a miscarriage, I wonder! That must have been a new one, even for you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He goes red, just for a moment, and then cracks a smile, just the corner of his mouth. </span>
  <em>
    <span>His lips</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’d be surprised. ...But you’re right, she’s very hard to forget.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’ll pass</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I’d like to imagine that meant something special, just for me, but the discussion is moved on before I can read anything into it. Godmother is desperate to know just what kind of things “she’d be surprised” to know about the confessional. He humors her with some thirdhand anecdotes, at least one of which I’m certain I’ve seen on Reddit. After the fifth time she unnecessarily manhandles his bicep, I excuse myself to open a bottle of wine.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, how about the champagne, dear! It’s so festive having Father here. I’m quite keen to have a bit of a spiritual moment.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ugh</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Fine. I go to the kitchen and am tempted to pull out a bottle saved from their wedding anniversary, but I decide better of it—she might find it a charming idea, to celebrate with the priest who married them, and I’d rather not be any more accommodating than strictly necessary. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When I return, Claire is on the sofa, talking at length, gushing even, about her towheaded Finnish son whom she just put down for a nap. “He’s just a few months old, but Jorkki—oh, he’s just already so advanced!” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jorkki.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Priest is doing a great job of listening attentively without reaction, although I can tell he’s a bit nonplussed by the name. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then he makes the mistake of looking over at me, with my lips pursed in lightly camouflaged amusement, and he’s suddenly fighting to keep straight-faced. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When Claire is distracted for a moment with questions by Godmother, I turn to the Priest and say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sotto voce</span>
  </em>
  <span>, “I’m sure it’s a very normal name in Finland.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He narrows his eyes at me in amusement.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“She named her son Yorkie! Did you have something to do with this?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh no. Although I think I might have turned her oppositional. She didn’t like some of my jokes, I think it made her more determined.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And now the son will suffer the sins of the aunt.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I coolly take a sip of champagne from my coupe.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Someone has to.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I can see him sliding back into our natural easiness, and then the moment when he consciously puts on the breaks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t know you’d be here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Obviously</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry, not like that.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know, it’s fine. We can have our own little farce here for a week or two, and then you can get back to your imaginary friend.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, fuck off.” But he’s smiling; I’m smiling too. He can’t really keep it formal, although I can see he’s trying. I doubt the second bottle of champagne Godmother just opened will help. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>one from the wedding, and she’s making a big show of making our weird pandemic clusterfuck about her nuptials. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I had turned my head when I heard the cork pop from the bottle. When I turn it back, I catch the Priest eyeing my neon sports bra through my black netted top. He sees me noticing, and clears his throat.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So, uh…. Been exercising?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, I like to keep things limber with a bit of yoga now and again. You, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Father</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It arouses him; he wants to parlay my flirt, I can hear it the way he chuckles. His response is in a very priesty voice to cover up the lapse. I suppose it’s meant to be some sort of godly counsel, but it just comes out garbled. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>I smirk knowingly, so he flushes and changes the subject. It’s precious when he’s flustered. After a few more tries at smalltalk, he becomes serious, tries to ask how I am in light of recent events, but I weave and evade with my usual flippant commentary. He’s becoming frustrated, but I don’t think he gets to pry, not with the way things are. I’m not going to open up to someone who’s already broken my heart twice. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Oh, well, you know her! Enjoys getting out and about, certainly! Why, not three months after her fake miscarriage she goes and has a real one!”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It turns out, actually, that it’s the fifth bottle of champagne, not the second, that does it. At this point, at one bottle apiece, only some cheese and crackers and olives to soak it up, we are all well and truly soused. Claire’s even a bit fun, actually, gushing about her model-blond husband and model-blond baby. She’s made a few provocative comments here and there about priestly vows, and the Priest has noticed, but really it’s his own fault—you can’t ask someone for her oversexed sister’s address well after teatime and expect her not to jump to conclusions. I really didn’t ever say a word. In some ways, it all felt like it should stay just between us. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ugh</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anyway, as I was saying, it’s the fifth bottle of champagne that really shows the cracks in that priestly facade. He’s cursing every third word instead of every fifth, he’s eyeing my yoga kit more openly, and he’s starting to make oblique references to things he learned that night he came to my apartment, some of them almost overtly sexual. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I know you like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We catch eyes for a long moment after he somehow invokes, during a comment on Boris Johnson, a moment on my couch where he had his face buried in my pussy. (Well, I guess a cunt is a cunt is a cunt.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Each time Claire picks up one of these references she looks more and more amused. My stiff, unbending sister actually loves that I “broke him,” and without knowing how painful it all was she’s just laughing to see the evidence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I think she also likes that Godmother wants so hard to flirt with the man, and he’s impervious—ignores her in favor of me, no less. I have to admit that I’m feeling a bit smug myself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t know how—</span>
  <em>
    <span>lie</span>
  </em>
  <span>—but we seem to have migrated to the same settee. Our body language is clear: angled towards each other, and lots of gratuitous, featherlight fingertips alighting on biceps and knees and even, one time, curlicuing bits of hair. (He was noticing my haircut: “This is new…” “Like it?” “Very nice.”) </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s got to the point that even Godmother seems to have noticed. This, of course, does not please her. She calls the Priest (</span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> Priest!) to her side and attempts to monopolize his attention. I make a very petulant, childish face every time she grabs his elbow. I think he catches it, because he starts smirking at me over her head and makes faces at me everytime she says something outrageous. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But then she lets the bomb drop. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My Godmother, a truly accomplished narcissist, would hardly allow this kind of unwarranted flirtation to take place right under her nose. No—she needs his attention, and she also can’t have him thinking well of me. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Cunt</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So she says, without so much as a Bob’s-your-uncle, and apropos of what I don’t know, </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, well, you know her! Enjoys getting out and about, certainly! Why, not three months after her fake miscarriage she goes and has a </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> one!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Of course, this statement doesn’t have the desired effect. The Priest is not shocked, or offended, by my seeming sluttiness. It does, however, effectively shut down our flirtation. I can see him looking at me, concerned, in that obnoxious priestly way he has. I am one of his stray lambs, or whatever. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hate it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So, like a crow mid-squawk, I contort my mouth into a true rictus and rattle off a joke about how it’s my just </span>
  <em>
    <span>desserts</span>
  </em>
  <span> for pretending to miscarry over the tiramisu (awful, I know), and then try to tamp down the panic I feel rising up my gullet. Or is that vomit? Either way. I show him no vulnerability, even though I know he’s looking for it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Priest, of course, doesn’t count back, doesn’t even begin to think about it being his. I wonder when he’ll figure it out. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>So that’s the first night. The next few days involve less drinking (although, with this group, you know it’s only a matter of time), and so less open flirtation. In between whatever remote priesting he does during the day, the Priest tries to treat me with that benevolent, dispassionate concern he shows everyone, but is mostly unsuccessful. Romance and flirtation notwithstanding, he can’t help but wanting to be my friend. Every little run-in outside the loo or over cigarettes is charming, and sweet, and just the way I remember it. Nothing could be more natural. Godmother is, predictably, even more annoyed than she was the first night. Dad is oblivious. Claire is starting to cotton on, from my behavior, that something might be a little different, a little unusual, not quite so like all my other conquests. (This has not stopped her attempts at innuendo.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Outside all this, the world seems to be falling apart outside, and we are up to our eyeballs in diapers. I expend a lot of energy avoiding Godmother—who thankfully spends many of her hours painting and avoiding Jorkki—and maybe also a fair amount of energy trying to run into the Priest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My favorite of these little friendly interactions occurs while we are watching some truly heinous television on Wednesday night. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a reality show, and we’re amusing ourselves making snarky comments about this or that contestant. For once, everyone else is occupied—Claire with the baby, Godmother with painting, Dad with—actually, I have no idea what his hobbies are. Anyway. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We’ve migrated, once again, closer on the couch than we really should be. But for all his clear resistance, I can tell the Priest has adapted to this strange situation—staying at my Dad’s, seeing me everyday—much more easily than he tells himself he has. It’s funny that for someone seemingly so self-aware the last time around, this time he is perpetually lying to himself. I think he’s in self-protection mode. Still, he really can’t help himself, and I get glimmers of our connection every once in a while, maybe even especially when he’s subsuming his desire for intimacy with me, in particular, into his desire to be a shepherd to his flock, in general. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s prying, now, something on the telly made something occur to him, he wants me to open up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, Father, I’d love to open up.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The question he asks is about Boo. He remembers the way I evaded him back at the cafe, and something about sitting with him so domestically erodes my barriers, or maybe it’s a painting of my mother’s on the wall. I let him just the littlest bit in, tell him something small about my “internal life,” the kind of thing I hate ever telling anyone, now that Boo and Mum are gone. He grabs my hand; it feels like a little reward for being open and honest. I don’t know how he justifies it to himself, what priestly little lie he concocts, but we sit the rest of the night pretty close on the couch. I’m fairly certain he smells my hair at least once.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even though nobody exactly has real schedules anymore, Friday night still feels like a night to go out. Everyone’s a bit stir crazy, so it’s not totally surprising that Godmother tries to drum up a little festivity. I think it’s also because she wants to trap the Priest into conversation—he’s been surprisingly good at slithering his way out of one-on-one interactions with her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So here we are again, quite drunk, this time outside. It’s an unseasonably nice night, and Godmother has some kind of torch thingies to keep it warm, so none of us could resist moving the party to the backyard. Godmother has lit the space with fairy lights; I’m drunk enough to admit to myself that the effect is charming (not drunk enough to say it aloud). </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve been naughty; today, I quite deliberately dressed to please—quite correctly, in my view, pinpointing just the kind of thing to titillate my Priest. I remember he liked the dress I wore to the wedding, casual and casually revealing, so this time I’ve gone for a very short and fairly low-cut romper. (With sheer tights—it may be unseasonable, but it’s still London.) It’s sexy, but in a playful way, just like him and just like our dynamic. It’s been riding up my crotch all day, and I just keep thinking of him thinking of that. It’s doing nothing for my composure. He tried to ignore it when he was sober, but his seeming abstemiousness has been slipping by the minute, and now that he’s drunk he can’t help the lingering looks when I rub my thighs together out of frustration. Claire’s noticed again, and is smirking at me, but I think she’s been figuring out there are “emotions” involved and keeps her judgment to herself (for once). </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I go for a cigarette; he follows. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is familiar.” I’m a bit surprised when he says it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what you mean. Cigarette?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He takes it and lights it from mine, meeting my eyes. He doesn’t step back very much once it’s lit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have you been enjoying my Godmother’s attention?” She was literally stroking his hair earlier; I thought I might sick up </span>
  <span>some pâté en croûte.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Jesus” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jaysus</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Sometimes I think I might be better off </span>
  <em>
    <span>puncturing</span>
  </em>
  <span> the mystique so she’ll leave me alone.” He jabs his hand forward as an accent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“God, she’s such a cunt.” Not my cleverest, I know, but very honest. It provokes a laugh anyway. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t understand their dynamic at all.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> like something a bit different.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I suppose I do.” He’s torn again, between acknowledging, flirting about, our past, and pretending to feel like a “father of many” towards me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Although I suppose being married to God can’t be so different from being married to my dad. You never get a clear response either way.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Har, har.” This smile is not ambivalent, though, it’s full and charming. He rolls his eyes fully too. He still hasn’t, by the way, stepped out of my personal space. No matter how consciously he tries to keep his distance, the tells are still there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We actually, at this point, just smile stupidly at each other for a moment. He looks bashfully down, and peeks up at me to smile again, and then we just smoke the rest of our cigarettes in companionable silence. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"...I always was shit at maths."</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Priest is worried about Pam. She annoys him, I know she does, but his tender heart can’t let him acknowledge that at a time like this, when he’s worried about her health. It’s Monday, and he’s telling me about how normally he would be doing this or that bit of his routine and running this or that by Pam right about now. It’s eating at him that the pandemic has rendered him semi-useless, in his mind. He still does all sorts of holy things from his bedroom—no, not a euphemism, actually—and remotely provides sacraments, I guess, and other God-based things that I can’t quite keep track of. Still, it’s not the same as it was, and it saddens him. I’m sure he’s feeling a bit cooped up, too, just like I am, and I can’t help but keep thinking of ways to help him burn off some of that restless energy. </p><p> </p><p>Instead, I ask him about another way to burn off excess energy, vis-à-vis yoga. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll get a YouTube channel. Your godmother loves the collar”—she really never stops touching it—“maybe she can help me fashion a special one for priest-led vinyasa.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s got that big goofy smile, and makes some sort of gesture with his hands which I guess is meant to express a yoga pose. </p><p> </p><p>“I dunno, <em> Father </em>, seems a bit sacreligious.” I fiddle with my necklace flirtatiously.</p><p> </p><p>His eyes darken a bit and snap down—for just a split second, he looks where he shouldn’t. I think he’s remembering another time I’ve called him “Father.”</p><p> </p><p>“It probably is. But I dunno, maybe not such a bad idea, a little exercise”—I raise my eyebrows—“You stop!”</p><p> </p><p>I just smile. </p><p> </p><p>We do end up actually trying yoga together, funnily enough—I guess boredom will make you try anything once. </p><p> </p><p>He’s not bad, in that very-unflexible way many men are, and watching him I definitely commit a few sins in my thoughts when I should be being mindful. He finds it too difficult, as a beginner, to get as distracted as I would like by my kit. (I switched it up this time, to see what he likes better. I think he prefers the black-on-black to the neon.)</p><p> </p><p>We get a bit sleepy when we’re supposed to be meditating at the end, and I maybe edge my fingers towards his on the mat he’s using. He doesn’t move his away, so I consider it a win.  </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>In my opinion, pretending we never meant anything to each other is actually a way worse strategy for the Priest to keep his peace of mind. It doesn’t seem like him—we were so honest and upfront about it before—but I guess he’s worried that he won’t be able to keep it together for the few weeks or even longer that he’ll be stuck here unless he more actively ignores the sexual part of our relationship. Or perhaps he’s telling himself that he can trust his own self-control, unlike before. But I <em> do </em> think it’s a worse strategy, because even though he has been more successful, this time, at not having sex with me, we’re actually just getting closer and closer. He’s also much worse at maintaining boundaries when there’s this pretense of platonic friendship—if we’re friends, we can hug; if we’re friends, he can pry. He plays “priest,” and asks me serious questions; I answer him, but not because he’s a priest, and he knows that. </p><p> </p><p>If this whole pretense of his <em> were </em> true, then everything would be less mutual, more one-sided: he would asketh questions and giveth counsel; I would divulge and confess. But that’s not how it ends up working. One day, I sit with him for two hours while we chat back and forth about the content of his latest newsletter. He’s a bit sad—no more restaurant reviews—because he knows that for the older people in the community it’s a window into the world. Anyone who was trapped at home before is doubly trapped now, and he feels for them all. <em> My sweet Priest </em>. Most of the parishioners he visited in person don’t know how to manage the technology necessary to receive remote visits from their priest, and so he feels like he’s abandoned them. Unbelievably, it’s me providing comfort, and me providing counsel. I try to cheer him up, and think of little things we might do to connect with the loneliest of his flock. I don’t feel like I did with Harry—beleaguered, long-suffering—but actually worried for him when he’s sad and then just happy—happy to help, happy to provide support, in my way. </p><p> </p><p>I don’t think the Priest is very used to lying to himself, and I’m pretty sure he knows well what’s happening here. But unlike last time, he doesn’t dare name it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>A few days later, we’re drunk again. We’re sitting on the settee again, and this time his fingertips are less than an inch from the hem of my skirt where it drapes on the cushion. I can tell he is actively restraining himself from putting his hand properly on my thigh; he almost does it more than once. Because he can’t masturbate, I think he gets erections more easily than a man his age should; he’s not entirely unaffected right now, and this isn’t the first time I’ve caught him willing away a partial. His shoulders look strong and masculine with his shirt pulling taught across his back when he leans forward. I feel very sultry, almost, as if I were surrounded by a humidity, and I keep thinking that there’s no way he can keep going pretending that we’re not dancing on the edge of precipice, but somehow he does. Then he’s asking personal questions, again, and I mostly evade, but he smiles very sweetly whenever he can pull more from me than I’m used to giving. We look properly in love, sitting on that couch.</p><p> </p><p>The next morning, Claire pulls me aside and chews me out. </p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing!”</p><p> </p><p>Her hands are on her hips, even. I expect she’ll start wagging a finger soon.</p><p> </p><p>“Well this muffin won’t butter itself.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh! Don’t be so <em> you </em>. I mean what are you doing with the Priest!”</p><p> </p><p>I get shifty-eyed. I am fully aware I’m being self-destructive, but I don’t have the least control over it. When have I ever?</p><p> </p><p>“I thought you were just flirting, I thought maybe you just had had a fuck, oh ha-ha-ha he broke his vows, but this is <em> serious </em>!”</p><p> </p><p>“When am I ever serious?”</p><p> </p><p>She smacks her hand down over the kitcheny things I’m fiddling with.</p><p> </p><p>“Quit evading! We need to make a plan, we need to deal with this. How long will he be stuck here? We just have to extract you from this until then. I regret ever trapping you here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Claire…”</p><p> </p><p>“Good morning.” The Priest walks in, flicking his eyes between me and my sister. He can tell he’s interrupted, but he doesn’t bother leaving. </p><p> </p><p>“Morning!” I say, overly cheerfully. He doesn’t buy it, but he can’t help but smile a bit back. He’s standing a bit too close again, but again it’s very clear (when he’s sober) when he makes the conscious decision to flip from “man” to “priest.” When it becomes obvious that Clair and I will not be continuing our discussion, he starts chatting this or that about his parish responsibilities. Claire engages politely, but I can tell she’s suspicious—she’s noticed that his priestliness doesn’t seem to coincide with any too-platonic understanding of my personal space. Her eyes narrow further and further every time he seems charmed by my jokes. They’re almost shut. </p><p> </p><p>Now I’m a bit nervous myself. I don’t know what Claire’s plan is, but I <em> am </em> sure that I don’t want to be saved from myself. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’s Friday again, and the Priest and I have decided it might be a laugh to try a bit of cooking. (I won’t get into the interpersonal politicking and manipulation it took for Godmother to give me free reign in her kitchen, but suffice to say the Priest has his charms.)</p><p> </p><p>Claire’s plan, by the way, has become pretty clear, although it’s success rate is poor at the moment given the tiny helpless thing to whose whims she is subject at any given moment—namely, she’s playing third wheel. She has also taken to bringing up anything and everything, particularly to do with Catholicism, that she believes will kill the mood. I’m not sure if the reminders are working, but the Priest <em> does </em> seem embarrassed to have been caught out. My dad is naturally oblivious to our flirting; Godmother is <em> willfully </em> oblivious; so maybe he didn’t realize he was being so obvious. Now, whenever there are other people around, he maintains the proper distance and divides his attention appropriately. I’m sure Godmother’s pleased. </p><p> </p><p>Claire is aware that this practice isn’t continued while he and I are alone, and so she takes it upon herself to be as present as possible. It’s all under the auspices of “sisterly bonding.” I’m not too annoyed, though—fucking with Claire has always been a great pastime of mine. As I’m chopping tomatoes, I make a comment that annoys her so much she leaves in a huff, sabotage forgotten. </p><p> </p><p>The Priest is pointing his finger at me. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re a troll!”</p><p> </p><p>“I beg your pardon.”</p><p> </p><p>“Come off it! You’re a troll! Poor Claire, she just came in for a bit of company-”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not why she came in.”</p><p> </p><p>He ignores that.</p><p> </p><p>“-and there you are, the Devil herself!”</p><p> </p><p>“I thought I was a <em> troll </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re a devil <em> and </em> a troll!”</p><p> </p><p>I try to work out a clever portmanteau, but they all sound bad. Or, at least, none of them are very <em> droll </em>. (Hah!)</p><p> </p><p>He’s messing about with the peeler. You’d think an Irishman would be better at potatoes. </p><p> </p><p>“I always knew you were trouble.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I did punch someone the first time you met me.”</p><p> </p><p>He flails his hands—it’s adorable, although it is getting peelings on the floor.</p><p> </p><p>“No, no, before that! I moment you walked in that restaurant, and I saw that outfit, I knew-”</p><p> </p><p>“What about my outfit?” </p><p> </p><p>“-I <em> knew </em> there would be something. I didn’t buy it for a second when you acted all quiet.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is that why you followed me outside?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, that’s why I-”</p><p> </p><p>I smirk at him and the hash (hah) he’s made of the potatoes. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s just what I mean! Trapping me like some kind of devilish troll!” He points the peeler at me. </p><p> </p><p>He’s wearing a hunter green spring-weight jumper today. It looks very cozy, and even on someone much less appealing I would be hard-pressed not to touch it. He switches gears while I’m lost in the fantasy. </p><p> </p><p>“You never said, by the way. How is it that you’re here? I know you don’t get on with your stepmother.”</p><p> </p><p>“Godmother.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, both, right-”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Godmother </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine, your godmother.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ugh, you can blame Claire. She didn’t want to be stuck here in misery by herself, so as any good sister would do she decided to include me in her suffering. I don’t think Godmother was too keen on helping with Yorkie, so I suddenly became a convenient addition to the party.”</p><p> </p><p>He laughs that charming, triumphant laugh of his.</p><p> </p><p>“You know, somehow I can always tell you’re saying it like the dog. Trolling again! I can’t go laughing at baby names, I’m a priest!” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Father </em>, that’s entirely in your head. I didn’t do a thing.” (This time.)</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm, I dunno, I dunno. Trollish devils-”</p><p> </p><p>“I thought I was a devilish troll-”</p><p> </p><p>“-have a certain way about them.”</p><p> </p><p>“I guess I do have a certain way about me.”</p><p> </p><p>He smiles—he agrees.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>  </p><p>Cute as all this is, it couldn’t last forever. Already, fissures are radiating out along the faultlines; I know that Godmother has been near hissy fit at least twice in the last three days. She’s been spending more and more time painting under ascendancy of great emotions. I hate to think what else she’s doing up there. </p><p> </p><p>If you had asked me, I would have predicted that it was the sexual tension that would give first. Or maybe there’d be a big blowup between me and Godmother, more or less out in the open, or perhaps just a sororal row of the kind Claire and I had at least weekly when we were young.  </p><p> </p><p>But, <em> fuck me </em>, it’s the sentiment that does it in the end. </p><p> </p><p>The Priest, concerned, corners me one day, trying to give me his holy counsel. He’s pretending to himself that I mean the same to him as any parishioner. He feels I’m in need; he wishes to be a rock to my wavering whatever, to be of solace to my whatever else. I think it was provoked by another snide comment Godmother has made about my <em> true </em> miscarriage. I can see, beneath that veneer, that it truly bothers him that I haven’t opened up to him about it. He pretends to be disinterested in his concern, but really he’s upset that there’s a discontinuity in our intimacy, there’s a spot I won’t let him in. He still wants to <em> know </em> me. (In the Biblical sense, too, but that’s not what I mean.)</p><p> </p><p>It’s been a few weeks, and I’ve talked about a great many things, but he still can’t get me to confide in him about this. </p><p> </p><p>Priest-mode again, like the worst setting on your vibrator (truly bad simile, so sorry)—he’s trying very hard to be understanding about it all. He’s <em> concerned </em> that I’m trying to solve my problems with sex, I suppose, <em> worried </em> about what that means for <em> me </em>. He’s high above it all, no judgment, just pious forgiveness, beatific acceptance. Not even the tiniest bit of jealousy shows through. </p><p>He must be playing a little game of "oblivious priest," because he's so intuitive and quick I don't see how he hasn't guessed this already. </p><p> </p><p>"Why'd you decide to keep it?"</p><p> </p><p>"Well I didn't—it jumped ship, like a goldfish." Mixed metaphor.</p><p> </p><p>"<em> Awful </em>. But no, I mean, you had a miscarriage at however many months, why didn't you get an abortion before then?" </p><p> </p><p>"Because I’m such a great big slut, you mean?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, stop that! I just, it must have been terrible to lose it if you had really wanted to keep it, and I’m just a bit surprised...”</p><p> </p><p>“My, what would the Pope say!—Hah, you remember that song? 'What does the fox say?'"</p><p> </p><p>He shudders involuntarily, but he sees my game. He stops me from interrupting with more nonsense. </p><p> </p><p>"No, no, stop that, I'm being serious. Why..." </p><p> </p><p>Suddenly I'm so so angry. So angry I could scream. </p><p> </p><p>And then I do:</p><p> </p><p>“Because it was yours, you great big knob!”</p><p> </p><p>The words almost seem to ring off the extranumerary penis sculptures stuffed in the etagere in the upstairs hallway. </p><p> </p><p>Ah, that does it: the reaction I wanted. He blanches. Because he’s Irish, that truly means <em> white </em> . He never did figure it out; perhaps he was too afraid to count forwards, or backwards, and realize that maybe the timing meant that it was <em> his </em> fetus that was lost.  As a Catholic, I’m sure that means more to him than it did to me. </p><p> </p><p>So I ask him: “How come you didn't figure it out?”</p><p> </p><p>He looks a bit abashed. "Honestly I just got the fucking date wrong. Somehow I counted back to a few months after it could have been... It did occur to me... I did think of it. ...I always was shit at maths."</p><p> </p><p>“She said, ‘Not three months-’”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know, I don’t know! I guess I didn’t want it to be true!”</p><p> </p><p>We look at each other a very long, very tense moment. I’m not sure what he was trying to see.  </p><p>Dad bumbles in just then, and my Priest is still looking stricken, but he gives me a look that seems to say, “Later.”</p><p> </p><p>So I’m surprised that a few days pass and he never corners me to talk about it. I know he’s stewing, and I’m expecting a lecture, but then suddenly the subject seems dropped. I guess he chickened out. I have no idea what he’s thinking. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An ending?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s funny, because now that all that’s out of the way, we seem to have switched back to our previous dynamic. Instead of the Priest pretending we aren’t in love, pretending we aren’t acting like partners in a serious relationship, he’s back to actively explaining why it can never be, trying (failing) to meet my sexual overtures head-on with clear boundaries. I think maybe he feels a bit guilty for how far he let himself go, or he’s realized how little he can trust himself. He’s not saying we can’t for <em> me </em> , he’s saying it for <em> him </em>.  </p><p> </p><p>In some ways, I’m twice as frustrated as before, but in others it’s almost gratifying—the push-and-pull is back, and it’s sexy. There’s something so <em> naughty </em> about pulling him unwillingly towards the edge and watching him unable to stop himself jumping over. It’s a bit like I’ve won something, horrid as that seems. But I can’t say that he doesn’t enjoy it—I know he’s feeling more guilty now, and I do feel bad, but I know that he can feel that sexy edge too. I am actively ignoring what I know will be the fallout from all this, which I presume will involve another bus stop. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>In the end, I don’t have much time to enjoy the change. Pam’s at the hospital, the priory has been professionally cleaned, and Godmother has made it clear that I’m overstaying my welcome (I had been hanging on until I knew he’d be leaving too). It’s time for us both to go. </p><p> </p><p>He comes to my bedroom the night before we leave. I think he wants to talk about the <em> baby </em> (not Jorkki), finally got up the nerve, and I’m not sure if I feel like letting him. I still don’t like thinking of it, although he was right—aborting it would definitely have been more like me. I probably would have, if I hadn’t miscarried first, although I did tarry. </p><p> </p><p>“I wish you had told me.”</p><p> </p><p>“And what? Dragged you kicking and screaming from the priesthood? What’s the point?”</p><p> </p><p>“But I would have- I would have wanted to know.”</p><p> </p><p>“To suffer, you mean. Can’t be a father, can’t get an abortion…” </p><p> </p><p>He paces the room a bit. </p><p> </p><p>“It would have been terrible, I know, but I at least should have been there for you. I kicked you out of my church, and you had to be alone through it. You didn’t feel you could come to me...”</p><p> </p><p>He really does look wretched.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not one of your parishioners, I didn’t need your <em> counsel </em>. You had no obligation. It would have just been suffering for nothing.”</p><p> </p><p>I’m still pretty flippant, although my nails are probably poking holes in the duvet cover I’m sitting on at the edge of the bed. </p><p> </p><p>He bursts out—</p><p> </p><p>“But it might not, I don’t know what I would have-”</p><p> </p><p>An even sadder thought. </p><p> </p><p>“Right, so you would have come back to me for a baby and then left after the miscarriage? No thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t know what to say to that. </p><p> </p><p>I had been hoping, during this little adventure, that he and I might have made love again—one for the road. It would have been nice to make a few new memories. I don’t think I could ever get tired of reliving (<em> masturbating to </em>) our night, but it never hurts to put something new into rotation. But there’s no chance now, the last night, after a discussion like that. I look at him dolefully. He just keeps sighing, and pushing his fingers through his hair over and over. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know what to do with any of this.”</p><p> </p><p>I shrug. I don’t look up from my hands, even when the door closes. </p><p> </p><p>I never see him again.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Just kidding!</p><p> </p><p>Actually, it turns out that the idea of my miscarriage really gets stuck in his head. Well, I don’t know that from observation, but it becomes clear from his behavior after the end of the pandemic. (Pam is fine, by the way.)</p><p> </p><p>We don’t see each other, or hear about each other, for months and months. Breakup 3, not on a bus stop, and not exactly a breakup, is just as bad. My punishment for doing something bad for me against all advice, like a hangover or that feeling you get when you drink too much caffeine. Claire's unsaid I-told-you-sos are somehow psychically transmitted across the sea. </p><p> </p><p>So, one day, after we’re allowed outside again, I’m at Hilary’s, just bussing some tables. With Belinda’s help, my small business has managed to survive. Thankfully, everyone still likes coffee, although people seem to be a bit wary about touching things and people. Just as well—cafe’s a lot less sticky. </p><p> </p><p>I’m standing in the back, washing up, and who should appear outside my door but my Priest. <em> My Priest </em>. I really did think I would never see him again. It’s like a shot to the chest, or a shot of adrenaline. He looks at me and smiles, then comes in. </p><p> </p><p>“Hi.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hi.”</p><p> </p><p>He looks sheepish, makes a few false starts. </p><p> </p><p>“I just- Well who’s this!”</p><p> </p><p>Stephanie. He’s charmed, of course. She’s an icebreaker, <em> and </em> a heartbreaker. </p><p> </p><p>“Gift from a friend. Didn’t bother himself too much about the difference between hamsters and guinea pigs.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can see that! Oh, what a cute little thing!”</p><p> </p><p>It’s no less adorable than last time. It almost eclipses my sudden panic. If he’s here to really <span class="u"> underline</span> that we can’t be together, I’m going to be <em>fucking</em> angry. </p><p> </p><p>“Not that this isn’t diverting, but-”</p><p> </p><p>“Why am I here?”</p><p> </p><p>I nod. </p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t leave the priesthood.”</p><p> </p><p>I nod again. </p><p> </p><p>“But I didn’t… I couldn’t stand it, I couldn’t stand the thought…I just left you to suffer.”</p><p> </p><p>I have no idea where he’s going with this. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think—well, maybe it doesn’t have to be so all or nothing.”</p><p> </p><p>I get a glimmer of what he’s getting at, but I don’t know how I feel. </p><p> </p><p>“What are you proposing, exactly?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I was just thinking… I don’t know why I thought we couldn’t just be friends. We managed alright at your Da’s house, didn’t we?”</p><p> </p><p><em> Did we </em>?</p><p> </p><p>I just nod again. </p><p> </p><p>“So I thought, you know, I should have been there for you, and I would have been, if I hadn’t cut you out so totally. So.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s looking nervous now. He looks to the rodents for courage, or solidarity.  </p><p> </p><p>“So couldn’t we be friends? You’re not banned from the church anymore. Although I can’t let you in the confessional.”</p><p> </p><p>Might be struck by lightning.</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm.”</p><p> </p><p>“No? Is it too much?”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course not.”</p><p> </p><p>I like the Priest’s new strategy of lying to himself. He’s picked it right back up, and I guess maybe we can now both have our cake and eat it too. The fact that I’m not sure it can last—well, that’s part of the appeal.</p><p> </p><p>Now, I’d like to end this with another joke, like the last bit:</p><p> </p><p>“I never fuck him again.”</p><p> </p><p>—But that would be telling, wouldn’t it?</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello, just a short little pandemic story for you all. For some reason I felt compelled to write a Fleabag story last night (withdrawal?), so here you have the results today. That's a humblebrag, so feel free to compliment my speed in the comments below. </p><p>I was going to give a friendship ending, but where's the fun in that? Might as well piss all over the original story as much as possible. Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed, and now I will presumably begin another 20-year stretch wherein I do not write fanfic. :D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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